He Walks in Beauty
by Molly4
Summary: One-sided slash. No smut. R&R. My first slash, and probably my last slash, so don't hurt me. Written in 2nd person POV


I am in no way a slash fan. I rarely read it, I've certainly never wrote it, but somehow this just needed to be written. It's one-sided slash, the saddest and angstiest kind. Don't expect any sequels or anything. I'm surprised I even wrote this, though I'm proud of it.  
  
Disclaimers: I don't own any of this stuff. Okay?  
  
PG-13  
  
He Walks in Beauty  
  
He looks so beautiful sitting there, so beautiful that you wish you could reach out and touch him. It doesn't have to be some major romantic move, just for your fingertips to brush his shoulder. You can almost feel the shivers that that action would send down your spine, that electricity that flows through your body every time you "accidentally" brush past him in the hallway.  
  
And here he is, just sitting there playing Nintendo, and looking more beautiful than anything you've ever seen.  
  
Then the guilt comes, like it always does. Like it comes after you have that dream where you're in the shower with him. You shouldn't think about someone who is practically your brother like that. You shouldn't lick your lips without even realizing it when he walks by, and you see that he's wearing those jeans that fit in all the right places. You shouldn't feel the constant need to be near him, and find excuses to sit too close to him. And you definitely shouldn't have to cover up yourself whenever his leg brushes yours at dinner, or when he gets unusually physical in the pool and decides you need to be dunked. You just shouldn't be thinking these things about a guy who's practically your brother.  
  
You watch him carefully. Every tilt of his chin, every time he bites his lip, it all tells a story to you. And those eyes. Those eyes just tell you all about the pain and the loneliness that encompassed his life before you met him. They're starting to gain some kind of lively sparkle, but you can tell that the tired eyes haven't yet recovered from years of sheer unhappiness. When he turns those eyes of you, you melt into a puddle. You want to hold him, tell him all the things about him that are so beautiful that words can hardly describe them. Most of all, you want to kiss him, taste his lips, really know him. You want to feel his pain. You don't delude yourself into thinking you could take it away, but you could easily share the burden, lighten the load. And though your life has been filled with pain, maybe even more pain than his, you know that you were born to deal with the kind of pain you endured. He is sensitive. He is Phineas, and you are Gene, corrupting him by showing him the world he was so secluded from. Maybe you're even bringing him more pain.  
  
He gets up, mumbling something about getting some chips, but you hardly hear him. You're too busy watching his legs as he gracefully glides toward the kitchen. The television screen flashing "GAME OVER" in huge red letters doesn't even faze you.  
  
He walks in beauty. He always has. There's that aura all about him, the one that drew you to him the very moment you met. When you sized each other up, made snap judgments that would affect your relationship from that day forward. And the first time you laid eyes on him, you could hardly breathe. He was that magnificent in his pain. Maybe it was the pain that attracted you to him. You always seemed to have some kind of savior complex. You wanted to save him from his lonely life, bring him happiness, love him. Maybe you'd feel the same if he'd been a girl and you'd seen her there with those sad eyes, just begging for love.  
  
He asks you if you're okay as he sits down with a bowl of cooler ranch Doritos. You quickly say you're fine, but your hands tremble as you snatch a few out of the bowl. You can't even bring them to your mouth, and you drop them in frustration.  
  
You just can't fight that feeling anymore. You need to touch him.  
  
Your hand makes contact with his shoulder. He looks at you, those sad eyes widened. He asks you again if you're okay, but you don't answer. One hand reaches up and you run it through his hair. He stutters an inquiry as to just what you are doing. You don't reply. You're caught up in his beauty, his fine features, his cheeks, his hair, and his eyes. It always comes back to his eyes.  
  
You lean forward hesitantly, and you press your lips to his, knowing you should warn him, but knowing you can't. Your arms encircle him, pulling him tightly to you. So tight he can hardly move, and you know its just your efforts to prolong the end of your contact.  
  
Briefly, you feel the pain draining from his body, like its some tangible object. He tastes like chocolate and toothpaste, with just a hint of Cheetos. You don't want to ever let go of him.  
  
And then he pushes you away. Tries not to look disgusted. Swallows deeply.  
  
"Ryan, dude..no."  
  
You try to explain quickly. Make excuses and hope he buys them. But you can see in his eyes that he doesn't feel about you how you feel about him. And those three words that he utters break your heart into a thousand tiny pieces.  
  
"Look, if you're into that...that's cool. Whatever. No big deal. But I'm just..I'm not." He shakes his head vigorously.  
  
And you can see that part of him is a little angry. Angry perhaps, that you assumed that he felt like you did. All those years of taunting must have left some kind of bitter taste in his mouth. He didn't appreciate your assumptions.  
  
But you can see that he's your friend anyway. Even though he says that you probably need some time to think and walks briskly out of the room, you know he'll still talk to you tomorrow. He's still that beautiful that he'd accept the fact that you're head over heels in love with him.  
  
You sigh, defeated and humiliated.  
  
Doesn't he see that you just wanted to take the pain from him?  
  
R&R 


End file.
